


if we be friends

by sophieisgod



Series: Fakespeare in Love [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Theatre, I don't know, M/M, it's a mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophieisgod/pseuds/sophieisgod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis and Liam play the Dream, then and now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if we be friends

“Did I not tell you, Lou?”

Louis is biting at the skin of his thumb. Usually it’s Zayn who’s all nerves on first nights, but Louis isn’t nervous for himself.

Liam is centre stage, all the strength in his back held straight: a fairy king, watching the lovers, and Louis is watching him. And he is, he’s wonderful.

\--

Liam gets Oberon, which is – he’d auditioned because Niall had cornered him in the union, read for Demetrius because he can wrestle pretty convincingly and he has a sensible haircut. He knows his strengths at this point, and ‘dad’s choice’ is safely in his wheelhouse, so it’s a shock, getting Oberon.

He doesn’t seem to be the only one surprised.

“I’m not being funny,” Puck is saying, “but what the fuck, Zayn? Is this, like, a height thing?” He gestures vaguely at Liam, waving his hand up and down. “Because what the fuck, Zayn!”

“Calm down, Napoleon,” the director – Zayn – says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not a height thing. It’s a ‘there has never been anyone more suited for Puck, possibly since the dawn of time’ thing, alright?”

“Because I could be a king!” Puck says. “I have a very commanding presence!” He’s not wrong, Liam thinks.

“Um,” says Liam, and everyone turns to look at him. “Sorry, hi, just, I saw this production last year? And their Oberon was, like, quite a small guy, and then Puck was this big burly roadie type. So it doesn’t have to be a size thing. Height thing,” he corrects himself, trying not to flush, because the last thing he needs to think about now is, like, size differences, not with this Puck about ready to square up to him, bright and indignant. “Oberon was dressed like a superhero,” he offers. “He had a cape.” He had an inhaler, too, but Liam isn’t about to mention it.

“Cool,” says Puck.

“Sorry, I’m Liam, um, Oberon.” He shrugs. “Anyway, you’re not that little.” He trails off, sees Niall over Zayn’s shoulder, trying not to laugh.

“I like this one,” Puck decides. “He can stay.”

“Thanks, Lou,” Zayn says drily. “Means a lot.”

\--

Liam is wonderful, but Louis can’t speak the half of it, and he certainly can’t speak it to Zayn. Zayn, who writes his Pears a queen and calls her Gloriana for everyone to hear, dares them to hear it, while Louis stands picking at threads on his breeches.

Liam is wonderful, and Louis told him so last night; he’ll hear it again tonight if Louis has his way, in the room he’s kept above the tavern where the noise from below drowns out anything they might be doing.

For now, he takes a breath, and darts out on the stage, bows to his king and lets them see it: anyone who cares to look.

\--

Harry makes them watch Get Over It, most of the cast crammed into the tiny living room of the flat he shares with Louis, piling on the couch and sprawling on the floor. Harry’s playing Bottom. Louis makes a lot of jokes about it.

The film’s pretty good; Liam’s basically had a thing for Kirsten Dunst since he saw Jumanji, and X-Men 3 can’t be blamed on Ben Foster.

“We’re not singing in this, are we?” he asks Niall. He wouldn’t mind, but Niall scoffs. “Nah,” he says, “Zayn thinks he’s punk. Oi, Zayn,” he raises his voice. “We singing in this?”

“No singing,” says Zayn. “Lots of eyeliner.”

“Zayn has a vision,” Louis says loftily. “He’s seen Velvet Goldmine, it made a big impression.”

“Oh,” says Liam. “Cool.” He wonders if he should watch Labyrinth again, go a bit Bowie maybe.

“Zayn’s a dick,” says Louis, and Zayn kicks him.

“I like the way they do their faces in this,” says Harry, gesturing at the screen. “All sparkly.”

“Make-up test!” says Perrie, and gets off Zayn’s lap. Liam likes Perrie; when she’s Titania she gets up in his face even though she’s tiny. “Bring us your stuff, Louis,” she commands, and Louis huffs but he goes to get it. Perrie shoves Niall over and plonks herself next to Liam. “Need a victim,” she says.

“I volunteer as tribute,” Liam says, and Zayn snickers.

“I’ll do it, Pez,” says Louis when he comes back in and all but sits on her. To Liam, he says, “It’s just fuckloads of glitter, really, fairy king and all that. That a problem?” It’s pretty flip, the way he asks it. Liam just says, “Nope.”

“Make his eyes dark, Lou,” Zayn says, and Louis says, “Alright, alright. Diva.”

Liam shuts his eyes, parts his mouth, lets Louis dab at him with lipgloss.

\--

He’d never have thought it, that he would call someone ‘Lord’ and want to mean it. There’s a desperate edge to the thought; he doesn’t let himself linger over it, and when they’re alone, whenever he follows through on the urge to lower his head, drop his gaze, Liam takes his chin, lifts him up again to look at him.

“There you are,” he says, and Louis is.

\--

Liam is knackered, just fucking knackered. Zayn had cornered him and Louis, told them to thrash out the physicality of their dynamic, and then buggered off to rehearse being soulfully dishevelled as Lysander. It makes Liam feel a bit guilty, being this fed up when he’s not even multi-tasking like Zayn, or Niall, whose secondary role as stage manager mostly seems to involve sourcing massive amounts of jelly, but he’s completely blocked on this, he and Louis just lying starfished on the floor in their corner of the studio.

“Sorry,” he tells Louis. “I’m useless tonight.”

“Just tonight?” says Louis, but when Liam rolls his head to look at him he’s smiling.

“Hah,” says Liam. “I am having trouble, like, connecting with it, though? Oberon’s being such a dick.”

“And you would never,” says Louis. Liam makes a frustrated little noise at him, and they go on lying on the floor.

After a minute, Louis says, “This boy they’re scrapping over. . . Oberon doesn’t really give a shit about him, does he? About him specifically. He’s just fighting about it so he can get at Titania. He just wants something to hold onto.”

“Huh,” says Liam.

“And Puck’s the only thing he has the whole play. The only thing he’s really in control of.”

Liam thinks about it. “They’re quite wrapped up in each other, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Louis. “Like, Puck’s his, he can do what he wants with him. Manhandle him and that.”

“Maybe you should have been Oberon after all,” Liam says, mouth dry.

“Nah,” says Louis. “I think I’m coming around on Zayn’s vision.”

\--

Last night, after Zayn had finally thrown up his hands and sent them all away, Louis hadn’t lingered for a drink in the tavern, had gone straight up to his room and leant out at his window. He’d looked out over the warm London night, at the smell and squall of the city spread out before him, felt tight inside his skin with wanting.

Liam had come up to his room; Louis heard him slip the bolt and a shiver ran through him.

“Ill met by moonlight,” he said, and turned around.

“That’s my line,” Liam said. That smile, it will be his undoing.

“Mine too,” said Louis, and pushed off the sill. It is the work of moments, now, to undress Liam, Louis’ hands know him so well. Liam had sighed against him, had gone easily when Louis pushed him to the bed.

Louis loves the way Liam looks in his costume, the crown of leaves. Like Dionysus, it makes Louis feel wild. He’d told Liam last night, riding him, how he wanted to tip wine all over him, lick it off, and Liam had said, “Mother of _God_ ,” the way he does, big hands holding tight to Louis’ hips, pulling him down hard.

Now, when Liam comes offstage, Louis adjusts his crown, though there is no need. Steps in close, steps away, leaving Liam breathing heavy, eyes dark.

\--

“Did you ever have a yo-yo?”

“I am a child of the Nineties, Liam. Course I had a fucking yo-yo.”

“Right,” says Liam, “only I was thinking. That line of Puck’s, round about the earth in forty minutes? It’s like that trick, round-the-world. Like, Oberon sends him away, but he’s still got hold of the string, y’know?”

Liam never quite mastered round-the-world; he always used to hit himself in the head.

“Kinky,” says Louis lightly.

Liam wills down the burning in his cheeks. “Not really,” he says. “Dunno what you got up to with yo-yos.”

They’ve almost got their blocking down, loads better than they were, but opening night is less than a week away, so Liam hauls Louis to his feet, and they mark it through again.

Liam’s feet are planted firm; he leans out to balance when Louis reaches away, letting Louis twist and dart around him, never going far.

\--

Louis thinks about the unfathomable wideness of the world, and he thinks about forty minutes, testing the stretch of them. Sometimes, he can barely count forty breaths. Forty breaths before he finds himself distracted, before he lets his eyes slip across a crowd, seeking Liam out.

He almost hates it, this wanting. Forty minutes, if he had them now, and he’d bruise Liam’s mouth on his. He’d make Liam feel it, every line he spoke.

\--

“I mean, not, like, an orgy,” Zayn had said. “But basically an orgy.”

It’s not the first time Zayn’s explained his concept to them – “His vision,” Louis stresses. “Use your words, Liam, if you please,” – but they open tomorrow night, and owing to constraints of time and budget, this is the first chance they’ve had to work with the jelly.

Oh, god, the jelly.

The fridge at Louis and Harry’s is full of it, trays and trays of red and green and orange that Harry painstakingly mixes and pours and chills, while Louis escapes to hang round Liam’s halls, eating all his frozen pizzas. 

Zayn wants to use it at the end of the play, the wedding scene: have lovers and fairies and mechanicals chuck it everywhere, rub it in each other’s faces.

At first, Liam goes for Perrie, catching her up and rubbing jelly round her mouth like it’s wedding cake, and that’s right, isn’t it, his queen? “Watch my hair, Li,” she gasps; she has it all combed out in a silvery cloud, Liam can see how it’d be a pain to get all sticky. He goes for the side of her neck, instead, crushes it in and watches it slide down her throat. He doesn’t have to think of what to do next, barely has a moment to stand awkward before Zayn tugs her away.

“Everyone just keep swapping, yeah?” he calls, and Perrie rolls her eyes, palms a handful of jelly down the length of his back.

Liam’s winded the next second by someone jumping on him, crashing into his back: Louis, obviously, hitching himself up and cackling, smushing Liam’s nose with a fistful of jelly. Liam wipes it off, reaches back and smashes it into the back of Louis’ head, rubs it in his hair and giggles like an idiot as Louis squawks and tries to hit out at him without letting go, tightening his arm around Liam’s neck. Inevitably, they go down, Liam’s foot slipping out from under him and the two of them thudding to the floor. “Oh, very regal,” Louis huffs, but Liam just slaps his palm over his face to shut him up, looks up at the rest of them jumping and flinging.

When the lull comes, everyone heaving flushed and sticky, Louis hops to his feet and reels off the epilogue. He’s so good, when he turns it on like this. He lets it hang for a moment when he’s finished, then spins to find Zayn.

“Well?”

“Sick, mate,” says Zayn, looking round at them all and nodding happily. “Sick.”

\--

He cannot help it: he is envious of the open clear-eyed way Zayn seems to love these days, now that Louis does his glowering for him.

He is so proud, to have Liam in their company, on their stage, but it is dark-edged with possession; Louis feels as if he made him, in a way. Like this part of him belongs to Louis, to marking steps in the room above the tavern, Louis’ hand on his belly to show him how to breathe.

He would leave marks, if he could. He would sign his name.

\--

The Drama Barn is basically a black box, so Liam just has to rinse the floor down, sweep the mess right out of the door onto the grass. Louis had volunteered to help, but mostly he’s lying flat on the back in the middle of the floor, talking through the run as Liam mops around him.

“Move, you,” Liam says when he’s done everything else, interrupting Louis’ description of Jesy picking jelly out of her cleavage. He nudges Louis’ shoulder with the mop. “Come on, I’m nearly finished.”

Louis gets up grumbling and trails Liam around the space, as he mops the last sticky patch where Louis had sprawled, sweeps the last of the jelly out of the door, stashes the bucket.

“You done?” Louis asks, and when Liam nods he says, “Good,” and bunches a hand in Liam’s hoodie, walking backwards until his back hits the wall, pulling Liam with him until he steps in close, nearly stumbles.

Louis looks up at him wickedly, letting his knees give a bit, like he knows every dirty thought Liam swallowed about size differences the day they met. Liam puts his palm to the wall above Louis’s shoulder, just for balance.

Louis dips to kiss Liam’s throat. “Yeah?” he says, letting his lips hover. Liam swallows, feeling Louis’ breath against his skin. “Yeah,” he says.

“Cool,” says Louis, and they’re kissing, Liam tasting red and green and orange on Louis’ mouth and licking in for more.

They go down again, gracelessly, Liam on his elbows and then his back, and Louis rolls them over and over. “At least we know the floor’s clean,” he says in Liam’s ear, nipping gently, and Liam’s laugh hitches in his throat when their hips push together.

Later, when he has Louis spread out on the floor like he’s seen him so many times, arms stretched over his head, Louis will say, “Do it, Liam, fuck,” and he will.

\--

Liam is keen to watch, and Louis watches him. Liam looks at the stage the way Louis looks at London, leaning out his window – like he loves the way it scares him, like he is determined to tame it. Louis cannot wrap his arms around him from behind, go up on his toes and dig in with his chin, so he stands beside Liam in the wings, watching how he thrills, waiting for the moment they can step out on the stage together.

\--

“Are you putting glitter on his _abs_?”

“This is what teamwork looks like, Niall,” Louis says primly, even as he lets his nails scratch Liam’s belly, making him suck in a breath – the nails that Liam painted black for him, careful and cross-legged on Louis’ bed in the morning. “The beauty of an ensemble, innit.”

Niall snorts. “Break a fucking leg, yeah,” he says, and ducks away to give out glow-sticks. “You too!” Liam calls after him.

“Showtime,” says Louis. He’s still kneeling in front of Liam, grinning up at him like he knows they’re about to smash it, and on top of his nerves and adrenaline for the show Liam feels this rush of want, which is awkward, because he’s wearing leggings.

\--

“Give me your hands,” Louis says, and Liam’s hand is solid and sure in his, long fingers squeezing firm. The smile in Louis rises up, near cracking his final lines, beaming out over the cheering crowd and up into the London sky, and he holds on tight.

Louis lobs a final glitterbomb at the audience, and then he turns and jumps into Liam’s arms, legs up around Liam’s hips like they’re swing dancing or fucking, and Liam’s hands clutch at him automatically, hold him up, hold him close. Louis’ arms go around his neck and he’s grinning right into Liam’s face, jelly still caught in his hair. He’s so brilliant, Liam kisses him without stopping to think about it.

This wanting, this loving, when Liam looks at him, smiles for him on a stage.

**Author's Note:**

> So someone reblogged some homoerotic pictures from the Globe's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream with [leading tags](http://jokesonus.tumblr.com/post/54794064862/juliedillon-heysammy-mxdp-john-light-as) and a few months later I wrote something massively self-indulgent.
> 
> Asthmatic Oberon in a cape/gruff roadie Puck is a real thing, thank you [Filter](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Filter-Theatre-Company/107109036014783).
> 
> Also, Get Over It is a modern classic.


End file.
